Children of War
by peek-a-booboo
Summary: 19 years later and not all was well. After an investigation reveals the truth about a group of war orphans, nothing will be the same again. Short chapters, frequent updates. Non-canon next-gen characters, KB/MF, MB/TN, DG/BZ. Rated for language and the warnings inside.
1. March 1998

Usual disclaimers apply.

The following warnings apply for all chapters. Consider this your one warning:

Mentions of non-explicit non-con/rape

Mentions of non-explicit physical child abuse

Mentions child loss

Deals with the fallout of child trafficking

Teen pregnancy

Bigotry

Forced adoption

DH epilogue is ignored.

* * *

**March 1998**

Dark, pulsating veins lay thick underneath the skin of her hand. Cursed blood coursed through them, contaminating her body, pushing the air out her lungs. It wouldn't last too long, she knew, hoped. All she had had to do was to regain her breath and make it out of the room before another curse hit her.

She was sitting on her hands and knees, harshly breathing in and out to quench her revolting stomach. The metallic taste of blood in her mouth made her gag with each cleansing breath she tried to take. Her sprained shoulder throbbed in sync with her heartbeat, which wouldn't have been so bad if she'd have been able to stop the involuntary twitching of her limbs. It was absurd, and she was sure that she was mental for even thinking so, but aftereffects of the curse caused her more pain than the curse itself. She didn't know what she preferred more; the burning shocks that set her body on fire as the Cruciatus Curse coursed through her, or the hours-long twitching and misery afterwards.

Coughing and gagging, she swayed back and forth in her position, trying to give herself enough leverage to stand upright. Somewhere in the background, she heard an angry discussion going on. She couldn't quite hear what was being said through the ringing in her ears. Then again, she didn't care. As long as they didn't turn on her, whoever they were, she couldn't afford to care for others tonight.

All she wanted was for her detention to end so she could return to her bed and get some sleep. And tomorrow, tomorrow she'd pretend this night had never happened, as she had done the last time, just before Yule. Wallowing in self-pity or consideration for others was not something she could afford, not if she wanted to survive her last year.

She pushed herself up to her knees, swallowing down groans of pain. Still, a faint gasp escaped her when something snapped in her lower back, and a warm sensation spread down her legs, feeling as if she was wetting herself.

Scared that her tormentor had noticed, she looked up, preferring to see it coming when he decided to send another curse her way. That didn't happen. Through her blurred vision, she could make out her DADA professor, Amycus Carrow, standing in a far corner of the dimly lit classroom. He had his wand out, pointing it at another student on the floor -a boy, by the looks of it, and laughing like a lunatic.

She squinted as she tried to figure out who the poor sod was who had ended up here with her. Her earlier plan not to help her schoolmates anymore was almost forgotten when Carrow started waving his wand about as the boy began cursing louder and shaking his fist. Perhaps, she ought to tell him not to argue with Carrow, not if he valued his life.

Her fingers clawed at the wall's rough surface as she tried to stand up. Her numb legs gave out as soon as she put weight on them, and she unceremoniously fell over, banging her head on the floor.

"Ow," she groaned softly, immediately regretting it. The last thing she needed was to draw more attention to herself by interrupting Carrow's _discipline_ session with another student. That'd never end well for her. It hadn't for Daphne when she'd tried to stand up for her sister Astoria; both still bore the angry red scars on their backs.

_'You can do this.'_ All she had to do to end her detention was to get up and wobble to the door before Carrow hit her with another curse. That was the deal. Again, she swallowed her pain and got up to her hands and knees in the hopes that her second attempt would be more successful. Just as she touched the cool wall, she heard it.

"Imperio!"

She didn't realise it then, but detention was long from over for her. And try as she might, she wouldn't forget about it for the rest of her life.

* * *

**TBC**


	2. Late April 1998

**Late April 1998**

Erik Toffler looked on in disgust as the young couple before him kissed with an intensity he hadn't seen in a long time. Then again, it had been a long time since he had performed a wartime wedding. When faced with mortality, emotions always tended to run high, usually followed by misguided decisions.

Just like this very instant.

He cleared his throat a few times when hands started roaming. There was a limit to the amount of obscenity he could handle, and these two were testing his boundaries. At least, the groom had the decency to mutter an apology as he, albeit reluctantly, broke away from his bride. The girl was another story, though. Dressed in Muggle trousers and blue blouse too tight around her beer gut ample bosom, she was everything a proper witch wasn't supposed to be. When she grinned cheekily and even dared to wink at him when she caught him scrutinising her, Toffler felt an intense disgust bubble up inside.

He huffed in disdain when he finally recognised that infuriating grin. Now he remembered from where he had heard the girl's surname before; her whole family was nothing more than a bunch of unmannered yobs. He had the displeasure sharing a dormitory with one of her uncles at Hogwarts -or perhaps her father, he couldn't be sure as it was many years ago. By the looks of it, however, some things never changed. No matter how many generations passed and no matter how hard her whole family pretended to be something they were not, trash would always remain trash.

"So, uh, we're done here, then?" the groom asked as he cocked his chin at the parchments on the desk. His hand had snaked around his bride's waist, ready to grab her and run as soon as he got the 'go'.

Toffler sighed, silently lamenting his fate and degradation in function. Dealing with degenerates like the groom (his family wasn't much better than the girl's. How could he have forgotten?) was becoming increasingly difficult as the days passed. He should have taken Umbridge on her offer and put in a request for a transfer. The more he thought about it, the more he concluded that Muggle Registration couldn't be that bad. Maybe, it wasn't too late.

"Mister Toffler, sir, can we go?" the bride interrupted his musings as she swatted at her new husband's hand underneath her blouse.

Bloody hell, that grin of hers began to grate on his nerves. The sooner he got rid of them, the better. "Yes, yes, go and enjoy your, ah, reception."

Knowing their lot, it would be cheap beers with an extravagant dinner of mash and bangers, probably followed by a honeymoon at the Leaky Cauldron. Gods, he hated people like them.

Of course, they'd be out the door before he got to finish what he'd wanted to say. Toffler let out a breath of exasperation when the door closed with a too loud bang behind the couple, rattling the frames on the walls.

"Good riddance," Toffler muttered as he collected the marriage license and certificate for validation and filing. He was halfway out the door when his eye fell on the two dotted lines on the front page of the document. Two empty dotted lines.

"Idiots!" he growled as he crumpled the papers in his first.

Logically, he knew he ought to go after them for their signatures. Then again, he didn't feel particularly bothered by botching the wedding. Who would believe those two, anyway? There hadn't been witnesses present on their behalf, and it would be their word against his, a respected Ministry worker with decades of experience under his belt.

Snorting, he tossed the papers in the nearest bin and incinerated them with a flick of his wand. It was wartime; the strangest things tended to happen.

* * *

**TBC**


	3. November 1998

**November 1998**

Six months after the end of the war, the MLE's holding cells in the deepest levels of the Ministry of Magic still brimmed over with prisoners awaiting their trials and subsequent transportation to Azkaban. With the Wizengamot overworked, there was no telling how long these men and women would be there. And as it was, no one at the Ministry was in a hurry to speed up the formal proceedings. After all, these prisoners were alleged Death Eaters, some marked but most not. Rumours and gossip were enough to keep them locked up, the age-old adages about smoke and fire and better safe than sorry applied here.

In one of the farthest located cells, a young man in his early twenties lay on a thin pallet, counting imaginary dragons to help him fall asleep. It didn't come easy, however. Each time he got a bit drowsy, a sudden thought or image popped up, leaving him wide-awake in worry.

Four months already, four months since they had locked him up in here. During each visit in those five months, his Arguer had promised that it would be the following week that the Aurors would set him free, or that the Wizengamot would schedule a hearing. Suffice it to say, neither had happened yet, and the lack of progress made the young man grow more restless and agitated with each passing day. He needed to get out as soon as possible. He needed to find a job, a flat, and ensure everything was in order before _her_ time came. Which, at this point left him with what, two weeks?

He rounded his cheeks and let out a tortured breath. He wished that he had the money to hire a competent Arguer, preferably one who actually believed him when he said that he wasn't a Death Eater. He needed someone who had the resources and connections to contact the much-hailed Order members that knew him and his girl and persuade them to speak up on his behalf. Unfortunately, he had a Wizengamot appointed one, and he sure didn't have his best interest at heart.

The sudden rattling of the cell door had the young man on his heels in a matter of seconds and reaching for a wand he no longer possessed, reqady to fight until the bitter end if needed. Living in constant fear for more than a year could do that to a person. One of the night guards peeked around the door. The young man narrowed his eyes at him; the smug grin on the guard's face had raised all his hackles. Guard or not, if the bastard had come for another nightly cursing, he wouldn't hold back this time, consequences be damned. At least then he'd have a reason to be here.

"What d'you want?" he growled. His balled fists pressed against his thighs; he would fight back, but he wouldn't start. He wasn't a complete fool.

The guard remained silent. Instead, his smug grin grew wider as he looked the young man up and down before he threw something in his direction. A wad of paper hit him in the chest, followed by the heavy door closing with a loud bang. The guard's guffaws as he walked away did not bode well.

With trepidation coursing through him in suffocating waves, the young man picked up the piece of paper and smoothed it against his thigh. The handwriting was an achingly familiar one. The ink had run in places as if it had rained on it. He didn't want to unfold the letter; at this time of night, it couldn't be good news. It never was. Still, as if someone was guiding his hands, he found himself doing just that. At first, the words danced before his eyes, preventing him from processing the message, so he started anew. Again and again, his eyes darted over the hastily written note, and each new time he found himself wishing that it was someone's idea of a sick prank. As the words settled in, a thick lump formed in his throat, cutting off the air supply to his hammering heart and paralysed brain.

It took him two steps to reach the steel cell door. He began pounding on it, screaming and pleading for someone to let him out. No one came or listened. When he fell to his knees nearly an hour later, his hands were bloodied and broken and his voice nothing but a hoarse whisper as he kept on pleading for mercy, begging to be let out.

It took the Wizengamot three years to review his case and set him free without as much as an apology. By then, all he had left to grieve was an unmarked grave in the cemetery just outside Tinworth.

The only good thing was that she was there, waiting for him to come home.

* * *

**TBC**


End file.
